Rufford turned and swept her up in his arms, carrying her lightly, as if she weighed nothing at all. “The Fruit of the Vine, did you say?”
“Um-hmm.” She buried her face in his shoulder, feeling the warmth emanating from him, breathing in his scent. The muscles beneath the fabric rolled as he shifted her weight. She had never been this close to a man not her father. Were they all this powerful, this overwhelming? she wondered, from very far away. She had been missing something in her life.
He strode down the lane, across, into another, always downhill. Beth must have swooned, for the next thing she knew, he was shouting for the landlord in Spanish and kicking at the door of the inn. The door cracked open; a small man with mustachios protested that it was too late for a room, to no avail. Rufford pushed past him. Loud voices, a querulous inquiry from the top of the stairs—another guest. Threats from Rufford to wake the whole inn. The landlord sent them to a small room at the back of the house.
Rufford laid her on the bed, shut the door, took off his boots for some reason, and sat next to her on the bed. Noises outside petered out. Then quiet. She drifted.
“What is the number of your room?” he asked in a low rumble.
“What?” she murmured from somewhere near unconsciousness.
“Your room. I must get you back there if there is not to be a scandal.”
She looked up. His brows were drawn together in anger. Was he angry at her? “Eight.”
He nodded. “Rest. I must wait until the house has gone back to sleep.”
She smiled and drifted away.
Ian watched her in the moonlight from the opened shutters as sleep took her, and felt for her pulse. Her wrist was so small. He could break the bones between a thumb and forefinger. Why in God’s name had she followed him? It was all her fault, putting herself in his way just as he was bent on feeding. Dressed like an urchin, no less! He would never have . . . but he had. Even when he saw her eyes, those unmistakable green-gold eyes, he had been unable to restrain himself. He had fed from her. And it was more than feeding. The act had been totally unlike taking sustenance from Callow or the harlot earlier tonight.
He fingered her wrist again. He could feel no pulse. Panic surged. What had he done? He put his palm across her fragile throat and felt with thumb and middle finger for her carotid. The two round red circles accused him. There! Faint and fluttery, but a definite pulse. Ian breathed again. He had taken far too much blood for one so small. What had come over him? He had already assuaged his most urgent need. The feel of her slender body pressed against him made his body react even now. It had bordered on . . . ecstasy. That must be why he had so lost control. Who had begun to move their hips first? He could not control his caroming thoughts.
Why had she done it? He had to admit it had taken courage. She must have seen him with the woman in the garden, else she could not have followed him to the burnt ruins. She knew what he was, and even so, she continued. Perhaps she had known all along. She had seen the boy on the ship, the marks.
He put one shaking hand to his mouth, trying to quiet his mind. She might still die. She had been seriously weakened. But if she survived she must be preserved from her folly. He could not let her be found in boy’s clothes, having been carried in by a strange man last night. He would place her back in her own room in her own clothes. That would take care of the maids. Would the landlord connect the sick boy who must have a room at long past midnight with the sick girl to be found in number eight tomorrow? Gold would keep his silence.
The inn had dropped back into slumber. He could hear Mrs. Pargutter’s distinctive sputtering snore. He gathered the girl in his arms and picking up his boots he crept silently down the hall. The door of number eight was locked. Well, he could cover the price of a new lock. He wrenched the knob and stepped in, grabbing his boots and shutting the door.
He laid her in her own bed and glanced around for her things. Her valise was still packed, but he rummaged through it and found a fine lawn night shift. Thank God it had not only long sleeves but also a high Oriental collar to hide the marks on her throat.
Feeling huge and ungainly, he sat next to her on the bed. Beneath her, what must be a brightly embroidered coverlet was only dark and light blotches in the night. First he took the kerchief from her head and unwound her hair. Women did not sleep with their hair tied up. He had much experience of women. It was heavy, a luxurious fall. He took the coarse sandals from her delicate feet and tossed them to the floor. He hesitated before he fumbled at the rough rope belt at her waist. What was the problem? Had he not undressed a score of women? But they were willing partners and far more experienced than this small figure. She was virgin to a man’s eyes, he was almost sure, and would consider what he was doing a violation. The knot defied his fingers, so he simply grasped it with both hands and snapped it. Forcing his mind to a careful blank, he slid the ragged canvas trousers from her. He unbuttoned the shirt and shrugged first one shoulder and then the other from both shirt and jacket at once. Her skin was the color of coffee with too much cream in it. Brown could not describe a complexion such as hers. Gathering the clothes and shoes, he put them in a heap by the door, so he would not forget them when he left. He turned back to the bed and stopped stock still.
She lay against the coverlet, limbs in disarray, dark, thick hair falling over the pillow, and the sight just . . . stopped him. She was tiny but well formed, and her breasts were rather heavy for her size. How had he never noticed that? Their dusky areoles framed delicate nipples. The angle of her collarbone made her seem even more fragile. She had a narrow waist and flaring hips, something the modern mode of dress would never reveal. The dark triangle between her hips seemed too small to welcome a man.
He felt a thrill in his loins, a desire to touch her so strong it made him hold his breath. She would never respond to such as he was. Willingly. A thought, fleeting, darted into his mind and said he could compel her.
Instantly revulsion drenched him. As he had been compelled? As she had compelled him? The horror of that brief thought made his stomach churn. What was he becoming, that he could think such things? In one stride, he grabbed up the girl’s night shift. He gathered it from the bottom, shoved her hands through the sleeves, and dragged it over her head, pulling it down around her. He lifted her with one arm, pulled back the coverlet. Her warmth against his side tortured him. To his dismay, the dark lashes lifted and the green-gold cat’s eyes looked up at him. Were they accusing? No . . . they were something else. She raised a hand to his neck and drew him down. His lips brushed hers. He held his breath.
“Are you a dream?” she murmured into his mouth. She pressed her body, free from restraint under her shift, against him. He groaned, his need rising in him, not for her blood this time but for other kinds of sharing. “I don’t care,” she murmured. “Love me.”
There was no question of compulsion. She was a willing partner. In fact, the words had sounded like a command. He looked into her eyes and saw a kind of sureness there. A shudder of revulsion shook him. A woman commanded him? He had vowed never to let that happen again! He jerked away from her. She fell back against the pillow. Her eyes were swimming.
“Not a dream?” she said. Her eyelids fluttered even as he stared in horror at her and she seemed to faint. Ian stood, shuddering. He had escaped entanglement by the barest chance of her words. An overwhelming desire to escape came over him. An instant was all that was needed to cover her, gather up the urchin’s clothes, and slide out the door with his boots. He flung a gold piece on the taproom bar and pushed out into the night where creatures such as he belonged.
Back in his room at The Bells he could not sleep but paced from shuttered windows to the door and back. Tortured by the prospect that he could not hold his new nature at bay, dismayed that she had offered herself to him, he yet found room to be appalled that the fear and revulsion at her offer were so overpowering. He seemed caught between evils.
On the one hand, he might be becoming what Asharti was.
God knows, he was no angel. His early years at Cambridge and just after had been filled with women, gaming, every kind of sport, savory and unsavory. But he had always preserved some moral ground, however narrow. He never betrayed a confidence, he supported his friends even if it took courage, treated horses, dogs, and women well, even if he didn’t love them. When Henry inherited, Ian settled down, managed to clear most of his debts, found a diplomatic post, and applied himself. He had put aside wickedness. But his thoughts about the girl tonight bordered on mad or evil.
He wanted this girl. But when she seemed to command him, the memory of his time with Asharti forbade responding to her, even with another kiss. Perhaps he had always been cut off from women. He lusted, but he had never loved one. And now Asharti intervened. He might be becoming like her, but even if he was not, she ruled his life.
He had been changed, not only by that single drop of blood, but also by the months preceding it. As the crack in the shutters showed a lightening day, memories descended on him.
All day the slaves had lain, covered with a tarpaulin, barely able to breathe as the wind raged. The weight of sand made the canvas a heavy blanket indeed. The sun was a small orange ball overlooking hell. It was not his first sandstorm. This one offered no less death than the others. Two slaves had suffocated. But now he did not care for death and was disappointed when, as the blow decreased a bit, the caravan had moved forward even through the howling wind and stinging sand, driven by Asharti’s will alone. He staggered beside the palanquin, its silken hangings covered by canvas, tied down tightly. The falling wind still flung sand against his bare flesh and left it caked in his wounds. A voice called out, croaking in triumph somewhere ahead. They had reached the oasis, Haasi Fokra. The wind died, as if the oasis were immune to storm. The caravan seemed to sigh in relief. An expressive arm, ending in a long-nailed hand, gestured from the palanquin. Ian flinched. She could not want him now in all his dirt.
She did not. Fedeyah drifted up from the rear and unhitched the rope that held the canvas sides by grommets tight against the wind. “Worshipped One?” he inquired.
“Water the caravan. This oasis will be the last,” Ian heard Asharti murmur. “Take our position as soon as the sky has cleared.”
Ian waited his turn at the tiny pool, almost drained by the prodigious needs of the camels and the few remaining slaves. The drivers filled the company’s huge casks.
“We must turn back,” one driver muttered. “With this water, we may get back alive. If we go farther . . .” He did not need to complete his thought. The others muttered their assent.
Let them take their proposal to Asharti, Ian thought bitterly. But they would not. They were almost as afraid of her as he was. They would go to their deaths rather than risk her wrath.
His turn to drink came and he fell to his knees in the soft mud at the edge of the depleted pool. A few frowsy palms and some tattered bushes cloaked in dust ringed the sad puddle. He was the last to drink. He gulped the brown water churned up by the camels and the slaves before him, taking all he could before the keeper pulled him away. He was dimly aware that he was allowed more than the other slaves, no doubt due to his position as the favorite Asharti intended to “savor.” He was growing a little weaker day by day, though. He would not last forever. That was a comforting thought. As he lurched away from the dirty pool, he saw Asharti, dressed in a chartreuse silk that glowed in the desert night, exchanging the sextant with Fedeyah not far away. The keeper pushed him to his knees with a cuff, muttering. He bowed his head, but not before he saw Asharti nod, glowing with an energy he had not seen in her before. She spoke, excited, in Arabic. He could almost make out all the words.
“Three days, if we hurry, servant. Three days! All I have sought is within my grasp. I will no longer have to work through a man to rule.” She whirled away from Fedeyah and paced beside him. “Take your reading at noon tomorrow. We must be sure of our position.”
Fedeyah bowed. “The chronometers make the difference. We will find it this time.”
“You bear the light well,” Asharti remarked. “I remember when your flesh would sizzle like fried fat even in the dawning rays of the sun.”
“We grow tougher with age,” he replied. But Ian knew he didn’t think that true.
Asharti paced again. “Let the slaves be whipped forward briskly. The camels dawdle to match their pace. We must reach the exact spot at the full of the moon. It is not the half solstice, but with the proper calculations, we can make adjustments.”
“The slaves dwindle, Goddess Mine. They may not assuage your need on the return.”
Ian peered up through his lashes to see Asharti smile. It was a secret smile, assured. “I shall have no need of them. I will have more important blood than theirs to swell my veins.”
“Shall you take blood tonight?” Fedeyah asked.
She surveyed the slaves, a score only, down from fifty and those replenished frequently during the first part of their wandering, then turned her gaze to Ian. He quickly bowed his head. “We need them as an offering. I will abstain from draining any tonight. But wash the favorite and send him to me. My blood runs high in anticipation of my triumph.”
Fedeyah dragged Ian back through the mud to the pool. “Wash yourself, English.”
Ian sank to his knees in the shallow, brackish water and laved it over his shoulders. “Why do my wounds not fester, Arab?” Once he had hoped infection would release him.
The eunuch threw him soap and sat in the sand above the muddy verge. “Her spittle prevents festering. When she licks the wounds they heal by first intent.”
“Until she opens them again,” Ian muttered, soaping his body.
“As you say. Her spittle also keeps them flowing while she feeds.” The Arab’s whole demeanor spoke of defeat. Ian wondered what kind of wounds she opened in her servant.
“Three days to the end of our endless journey?”
“Perhaps. It has been what? A year? No, nearly two. So short a time. So long.”
“You think she will not need you after that.” Ian stated it boldly as he soaped his genitals. What did the Arab think would happen tomorrow? What would change?
“The end of our journey will be far worse for you than me,” the Arab returned, “and worse for the world. Or we may all be dead.”
“What does she seek?” Ian whispered.
“Ultimate power,” Fedeyah said, his voice dead. “And Allah help us if she finds it.” He shook himself. “No more questions, slave. Your hair is gritty. That will not please her.”
Ian submerged his head and scrubbed at his scalp. He surfaced, sputtering. The Arab tugged at his rope and Ian staggered up toward him. Fedeyah produced a jug filled with scented oil, with which Ian was only too familiar. Ian held out his cupped hands and Fedeyah filled them from the amphora. Ian rubbed the oil over his chest and belly. It smelled of myrrh. Asharti’s imminent demands oppressed his spirit. His only consolation was that Fedeyah had not produced the hated leather skin used to clean his anal passage. Was he to be spared the rods?
Fedeyah led him, dripping, from the pool toward the palanquin, silvered by moonlight. The failing breeze behind the storm dried his body. Several of his wounds now drooled fresh blood. That would excite her, he knew. Fedeyah held the hangings aside and Ian crawled into the silk cocoon. Its floor was a well-stuffed mattress four feet wide and perhaps eight in length, strewn with pillows in deep green and the purple of grapes. Now the dim light showed only tones of gray and black. The silk swung shut behind him, shutting out even moonlight. Asharti lounged among the luxurious hangings, the pale chartreuse of her deep-cut gown gleaming faintly in the dark against her pale skin. Slowly, Ian’s eyes adjusted to the shadows. A call to start the caravan echoed in the night outside. He knelt at the base of her bed, wavering as the palanquin was lifted by the slaves who bore it. His breath already came heavy in his chest in anticipation of the coming ordeal, repeated so often he could not remember a time when she had not commanded, he not serv
ed. Her scent suffused the palanquin. Its sweetness nauseated him. He waited for her eyes to go red and his body to respond to her in spite of his best efforts to suppress it. He closed his eyes once as she tapped the silks at her side, and crawled forward.
She tapped the bed again and he lay beside her. Her breasts, the nipples prominent under the liquid chartreuse silk, brushed against his chest. Her black hair cascaded over him as she leaned over. She whispered to him in French, “It is a special night, slave. Can you not feel it?” Her long nails trailed over his shoulder, touching the slashing wound she had made there, leaking once again. “Power trembles in the air.” Her full lips touched his forehead, even as she pushed his chin up. “I will sip first.” She drew back, surveying him. “Where shall I open you?”
He sighed, deep in his soul, and bared his throat, her favorite place to suck. But she did not bend to his suggestion. Instead she ran her fingers over the bloody furrows on his chest, his belly. She touched the twin marks of her sucking at the big veins in his groin, the cut on his thighs, then over his hips, around to his buttocks where she had made incisions. She cupped his elbow, presenting the vein she had opened on the tender inside. His chest rose convulsively with anxiety. Her lips brushed his cheekbone. He could feel her hot breath. He took her lip between his teeth and sucked. She always liked that. Her tongue ran under his lips, promising her own fulfillment, if not his. He felt the familiar tightness in his loins. She pressed her body against him, ran her hand around to the nape of his neck. His head lolled against her grip, baring his throat. Her lips strayed down over the stubble at his chin and she licked the twin wounds in the artery there. He could feel himself pulsing with it as it beat in his neck.
The piercing pain was expected. She molded her body to his as she pulled at his neck, suckling. Their bodies moved in time to the throb of his blood and the rhythm of her urgency. But she withdrew quickly with a little moan. He opened his eyes. She licked his blood from her fulsome lips and pressed herself rhythmically against him. Her hand moved to his cock, caressing its full length. “You obey, slave, to perfection,” she murmured. She moved aside the chartreuse silk, baring her breasts. She did not command him to suck them but instead brushed them against his nipples, provoking a groan as she tugged more firmly at his cock. For some time, she did no more than stroke his cock, his buttocks, press her hips and her naked breasts against him, and occasionally lick at his neck and the wound on his shoulder he had opened at the pool. The need in his loins became a torment in itself.
Susan Squires - [Companion Vampires 0] Page 13